Mourning the Day
by Lnzy1
Summary: Generation One. There is a delicate procedure to dealing with humans, especially the unstable and angry teenaged variety.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Notes:_ This started off as a one shot, something I've had been working on and off for sometime, but grew a bit longer. In my experience, people tend to perfer a certain length so I'm breaking it up into bits. This is the prologue, just to test out the water so to speak.

* * *

Mourning the Day

* * *

Another day, another shift. Jazz walked through the halls of the Ark at a leisurely pace, quietly humming some random tune he'd heard on the radio the day before, passing only a few others on his errand. Most able bodied Mechs were on shift, carrying out various repairs, or dealing with extenuating situations throughout the City and beyond. The rest of the crew was either in the Medbay for repairs or recovering in their quarters.

A battle between them and the Decepticons had left much of the Autobot crew with impairing injuries. Luckily enough for them, so had the Decepticons. The day was won, but there was little to celebrate about in the wake of any battle's aftermath. But Jazz didn't let that bother him. He had the recovery and call back lists to hand to Prowl, to update the current shift schedules, as well as a message from the Portland Police Department. Fearing it was another charge or reprimand for injuries or property damage from the skirmish, Jazz hadn't even so much as glanced at it. Let someone else handle the tedious stuff, he decided. Like Prowl. Prowl was the master of dealing with tedious and repetitive tasks. Like talking to the Portland Police Department.

The door to Prowl's office opened with a _swoosh_ and Jazz stepped lightly into small room, three data-pads stuffed under one arm, only to pause mid-stride at the sight before him. On any given day, Prowl's office could only be described as _organized chaos,_ but on _this_ day, the _organization_ portion seemed to have taken a much needed vacation. The Autobot tactician's desk was obscured from sight by towering stacks of data-pads, but there was no sign of the black and white Datsun's presence. Jazz glanced idly around the room, wondering where Prowl could have wandered off to when a voice, thick with aggravation and impatience, grouched at him from beyond the wall.

"What is it, _Jazz_?"

"Huh? Oh-! Uh, heya Prowl…I gotcha th' call back and recovery lists for ya from Ratchet," Jazz replied to the seemingly disembodied voice and held up the data-pads. "An' somethin' from Portland Police Department."

"Just place the lists with the others and I will examine them later," Prowl's flat, matter-of-factly voice replied. He sighed. "Hand me the Police report."

Prowl's hand appeared from within the data-pad fortress, his palm raised expectantly.

"Okaaaay…" Jazz starred irresolutely towards the towering stacks, hovering his data-pad hesitantly over various mounds in an attempt to choose one that would not mercilessly collapse on him. Choosing the shortest stack, he deftly placed the pad atop it. He waited a tense moment, fearing the pile would topple over, but it held firm and his vents hissed with a relieved sigh. He then placed the other into Prowl's awaiting hand.

He took one more inventory of the monstrosity that was currently occupying the Tactician's desk space.

"You—uh…need anytin'?" Jazz asked warily.

"No."

"If ya need me to, I could do th' shift schedules for ya," Jazz offered, "It'll thin yer work load a bit—"

"No thank you," Prowl replied with a small hint of 'and that's final' underscoring his tone.

"Are you sure?"

"_Yes_, Jazz. Most of these are simple media or government inquiries, and various lawsuits for property damage or injury from the other day's altercations," Prowl's voice replied, "Which reminds me, send Sunstreaker and Sideswipe in here when you find them. They have civic services to carry out tomorrow."

Jazz snorted. "They got _Community service_? Why?"

"It was the Portland City council's decision to reprimand them with communal duties rather then fines or imprisonment for their numerous traffic violations." Prowl clarified. "In fact, Tracks and Cliffjumper are at the Middleton Recreational Center, carrying out their sentence for that little drag racing incident this past February."

Jazz chuckled at the memory, "Will do, Prowl."

As Jazz turned to leave, he heard Prowl's engines rev and then his vents hiss with an aggravated sigh. "Delay that last order, Jazz…I need you to go get Sparkplug and go down to the Portland Police Station right away."

Jazz titled his head, bemused. "Why's that?"

"Apparently, Spike has been arrested."

* * *

_Author's Notes_: How was that? Love it? Hate it? Tell me what what you thought in a review. If it gets a decent response I'll post the rest.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's notes_: Wow! Thansk for all the great responses everyone! And as promised, here is the next bit. More to come.

* * *

Mourning the Day

* * *

"_Aggravated assault_?" Sparkplug's voice grated angrily in Jazz's interior. The elder Witwicky sat in the driver's seat, his hands hanging loosely on the staring wheel and it slipped easily through his fingers as Jazz drove through the Portland streets; Sparkplug was only feigning control. The man turned to issue a stark glare at the teenager sitting slumped in the passenger seat with his arms crossed, expression dour and looking as though all the world had decidedly crumbled atop of him. He had a split lip along with a bruised cheek while smaller scraps and cuts brandished his body while his shirt was tattered and torn. Spike starred at the window, not looking at his father. "What in God's name were you _thinking, _boy?"

When Spike didn't answer or even acknowledge he even heard his father, Sparkplug continued. "What have I always told you about fighting? I thought I raised you _bette_r then this, Spike! I have _never_ been this disappointed in you…"

Although Spike didn't reply, Jazz's scanners picked up a sudden elevation in the boy's heart and breathing rates, and his body tensed up. He had been just as surprised, and concerned, as Sparkplug to learn about Spike's incarceration, but when Spike's father learned the reason as to why, all concern melted away into pure anger. Jazz stayed out of the conversation, partly due to the fact that he didn't know what to say and partly because he didn't feel it was his place to.

Sparkplug sighed heavily, his grip tightening on the wheel, "Jazz?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you drop me off at the house?" Sparkplug sent a narrowed glance at his son. "I need to call my lawyer and see what we can do about this mess."

"Yeah, sure thing." Jazz replied. Although Jazz had only seen the Witwicky's residence a few times, it was easy enough to locate. It was a modest one story house halfway between the suburbs and the more rural areas. They spent so much time at the Ark and so little time at their abode that Sparkplug had made the comment on more then one accession about putting it up for sale and be damned with it. The little house sat sadly on its lonely plot, the windows dark and the lawn overgrown, once green blades now brown and neglected. A large garage sat to the side of the dwelling with a beat up old pick up sitting in the driveway, red paint fading and cracking.

Jazz pulled up behind the pick-up and opened his doors for the pair. Sparkplug got out quickly, unbuckling his seatbelt with a noticeable ferocity that Jazz didn't completely appreciate but said nothing. Sparkplug then bent down to look into the interior at his son who was slowly taking his time unbuckling his seatbelt, "Jazz," he said, glancing at the radio, "Take Spike back with you…please. I…need some time to myself. To think."

Spike, already halfway out of the vehicle, looked up at his father with a 'deer-caught-in-the-headlights' expression.

"Sure thing," Jazz replied. As Sparkplug closed the door and began walking up the path, Spike stepped out of Jazz and looked over to his Father. "Dad, I—!"

Sparkplug disappeared into the dark house without acknowledging his son. For a moment Spike simply stood there, one hand on Jazz's door, the other on his hood.

"C'mon Spike," Jazz prompted gently, "We should be gettin' back."

Spike didn't reply or move.

"Spike?" The young man's fist clenched and he snorted. "Yeah..." Sliding back into the Porsche, Spike put his seat belt back on and slumped back into the seat. As Jazz pulled out of the driveway, he asked quietly, "Wanna talk about it, kid?"

"No." Spike answered quietly, his voice cracking strangely and Jazz turned on his visual sensors towards the boy; his mouth was drawn thin, arms were crossed, fists clenched, body tense, and moisture gathered at the edges of his eyes. When a streak of liquid ran down his unbruised cheek, he quickly swiped it away like some annoying insect and he looked away as if to hide it.

The drive back to the Ark was uncomfortably silent.

* * *

Jazz had commed ahead of their arrival to inform Prowl that he was returning with Spike (as well as notifying him of the state of the boy) and was not at all surprised to see the Autobot tactician standing outside the entrance to the Ark upon their arrival, but apparently Spike very much was. His body immediately stiffened and he muttered bitterly under his breath, "_Great…_does _everyone_ know?"

Jazz chuckled lightly, "_Nah_. Just me an' Prowl…an' yer Dad a'course…an' probly Prime too most likely…"

Spike growl and sank farther into the seat. "_Fantastic_."

Jazz slowed to a gentle stop a few meters in front of Prowl and opened his passenger side door. Spike undid his seat belt and slowly stepped from vehicle, his eyes never wavering farther then a few feet from the ground. As soon as Spike was clear, Jazz closed his door shut and transformed. Sparing a quick downward, somewhat sympathetic glance at Spike, Jazz turned to the Datsun who had pinned the boy with an irritated frown.

"Spike," Prowl admonished unhappily, "I've informed Ratchet of the current circumstances and he is expecting you in the Medbay."

Spike made an incoherent mumble of a reply and stalked off into the Autobot base. When he was out of sight, Prowl turned back to Jazz.

"What was the reason for the arrest?" He asked the saboteur.

"Dunno the specifics, but he got booked on _Aggravated assault_, if you can believe it." Jazz replied in mild astonishment.

Prowl's own face plate shifted to reflect a similar, if not lesser, expression and his optics glanced towards the Ark's entrance where Spike had walked off. "Is that true?"

Jazz placed his hands on his hips, "A_-yup_. Doesn't seem like somethin' the kid would do, does it? He's always been the little peace keeper 'round here," he said in Spike's defense. "I wonder what's gotten 'im so upset. Tried to get 'im to talk 'bout it on th' way but he wouldn' say nothing'."

"How did Sparkplug take it?"

"'Not too well' would be putting it mildly. Said he'd never been so disappointed with 'im before. I dropped 'im off at 'is house so's he could call his lawyer."

Prowl looked curious. "Why did he not just come back here and use our judicial representative? I'm sure Chelsea would not have minded. I imagine she would most likely enjoy working on a case involving her own species for a change."

Jazz huffed a hollow laugh. He wouldn't doubt it. "Dunno. Said he wanted some time to think an' he asked me to bring Spike back here," Jazz sighed, "I think that got to the kid. If I didn't know any better I'da sworn I saw Spike tear up a bit on th' way here."

"Do we know why or who he assaulted?" Prowl asked.

"Nope," Jazz replied. "Sparkplug was too busy ranting to tell me and I didn't wanna entice any o' that on me, y'know? Just kept quiet th' whole time."

The Medbay had finally settled down and those with serious injuries were either in the CR chamber, or in their quarters recharging. Only a few had been released for active duty and those who were not in any of those categories were still in the Medbay.

Ratchet took a quick tally of the walking wounded. The worst injury left to treat belonged to Trailbreaker; the armor of his left shoulder having been blown apart, nearly severing the entire limb. But much to Trailbreaker's credit and character, the Mech treated the damage as if it were nothing but a superficial dent.

On an ironic note, the least injured of the Mechs treated his own little scratch as if it were the worse thing to ever happen to him, which it was not. And Ratchet would know, as he had treated said Mech for every, and any, injury he had ever received since joining Prime's unit and every other injury his brother had ever received as well. Sunstreaker sat forebodingly atop the table over from where Ratchet was currently looking at Trailbreaker's shoulder, a single gash (barely a foot wide) blaring from the otherwise pristine chest armor. The yellow warrior sat with his back to the wall, arms crossed, and he seemed to glare at everything and nothing.

Across the room on yet another table was another yellow Autobot, though much shorter then Sunstreaker. Bumblebee waited patiently, stout yellow legs swinging over the edge, while his left arm cradled his right that bore a modest hole in the armor and he seemed to be sporting more then a few dents and scraps, but the little Autobot looked just as cheerful as Trailbreaker. Sitting, unhappily, on the table over from him was the dark grey form of Bluestreak. The young gunner's wing panels were drooped so low they nearly bushed the table top and would send Ratchet uneasy glances every once in while. Bluestreak had been one of the first released from the Medbay after the battle, but was sent back the next day after he had been injured while doing maintenance with Hoist and Skids. Needless to say, Ratchet was not a happy Autobot and Bluestreak's blunder had not help.

"How much longer?" Sunstreaker griped from his table.

Ratchet growled and sent the Lamborghini a snide, narrow optic glance. "If I hear your vocalizer activate one more time, I swear to Primus you'll be covered in more indentions then a golf ball."

Sunstreaker's scowl deepened but he did not reply.

When the Medbay doors opened, Ratchet glanced to see who had come in to annoy him now. When he saw no one at first, he immediately lowered his optics to ground-level and sure enough, Spike (battered and bruised, just as Prowl had said) walked into the room, head bowed. The medic had never seen the young human in such a state, even after the many Decepticon raids he'd been caught in, and it shocked him for a moment, but he quickly regained his usual bitterness. Small gasps and noises of surprise emitted from various parties in the room upon Spike's entrance. Sunstreaker looked more intrigued then worried. Ratchet placed his tools aside and turned to glare at the young man. Spike froze and recoiled a bit when he turned his gaze up to meet the foreboding optics of the cranky medic and for a moment, the medic could see the innate 'fight or flight' response cross the boy's eyes and body language.

"Spike!" Bumblebee exclaimed, staring with wide optics at his organic friend. "What _happened_?"

"Yeah," The golden warrior added, "You look like slag."

Ratchet pinned the boy with a glare that sent the air sizzling with ire. "You—," he pointed imperiously towards Bumblebee's table, "—sit. _Now_."

Ratchet turned from Trailbreaker and briskly walked to the back of the Medbay towards the storage bins. Spike didn't argue and merely walked to the table Ratchet had pointed to. Bumblebee reached down to help the human up, but was careful where he held the young man, not knowing the extent to his injuries and he certainly did not want to aggravate any of them. Spike sat down near the table's edge and glowered at the floor below, not meeting the gazes of the Mechs around him.

Bumblebee stared at the quiet boy for a moment, his concern merely increasing with Spike's lack of speech. "Spike?" Bumblebee asked placing the palm of his good hand on Spike's back in a comforting gesture. "Are you OK?"

"No." Spike replied harshly, shrugging away. Bumblebee pulled his hand back as if he'd been bitten and then glanced up at Trailbreaker and Bluestreak who appeared equally as concerned as he. It was then that Ratchet returned with something clutched in his hand. Walking up to the table, he opened his palm to reveal a bottle of water and an ice pack.

"Drink that and keep the pack on your face till I say so," Ratchet demanded.

Spike peevishly took the objects from the giant hand and twisted the water bottle's top off, with possibly a little more force then necessary, downing the entire thing. He fingered the ice pack for a moment before Ratchet growled at him to put it on his face. It was only when Spike complied to the grouchy Mech that he returned to continue with Trailbreaker's repairs.

The Medbay became very quiet then. Everyone was eager to know what happened, but no one seemed to want to be the one to prompt the discussion. The only sound came from Trailbreaker as Ratchet worked on his shoulder. The large black Mech would occasionally release a pained gasp or grunt, but he seemed determined to hold it in.

"Ah," Trailbreaker hissed in discomfort. "Not that I'm complainin, Doc, but couldn't you deactivate the sensor node or something? This isn't exactly…grunt…comfortable."

"Oh go upgrade ya proto-form," Ratchet chastised. "I'd turn it off, but there isn't much left of it _to_ turn off and what is left is melted into slag. Just hang in there a bit longer."

Spike rolled the empty water bottle on the surface of the table with one hand while the other was holding the ice pack to his face. His expression, half obscured by the pack, seemed blank yet there was something there, an intent concentration almost as if he were attempting to stare a hole through the floor. Bumblebee regarded the young man with concern, looking over him and noting how…beaten up he looked.

"What happened, Spike?" Bumblebee asked quietly so no one else heard. Maybe he would be more willing to talk that way.

Spike sighed. "Don't worry about it, Bee."

"C'mon buddy," Bumblebee prompted, "You can tell me."

Spike crossed his legs and lean forward, taking slow deep breathes. "I…got into a fight."

Bumblebee's optics narrowed. "You got into fight? Why?"

Spike groaned and leaned backwards until he was lying on the table. "Just drop it, Bee. I don't want to talk about it. Dad's already yelled at me."

"Of course he yelled at you," Ratchet snapped as he over heard Spike. "You got arrested!"

Spike glowered up at the ceiling.

"Arrested?" Bluestreak and Bumblebee both chorused, stunned.

"For what? Fighting?" Sunstreaker tossed in his two cents. "_Pfft_, Sideswipe and I fight all the time and we don't get arrested."

"No. You get punishment detail," Ratchet retorted with a glare. Sunstreaker shrugged.

"But why did you get arrested, though?" Bluestreak asked.

Spike seemed to be trying to curl in on himself when a voice answered from the doorway.

"Because brawling in public is equivalent to 'disturbing the peace' which is a misdemeanor offense," Prowl said, walking into the Bay, "Spike was arrested for _aggravated assault_ on another human. His father posted bail this morning."

Prowl stood over the table, looming over Spike, "What in the world could have possessed you to attack someone? I expect this kind of behavior from Sunstreaker or Sideswipe, Primus, even Ratchet, but _you_?"

"I don't see what the big deal is," Sunstreaker said apathetically, "So he ruffed another kid up, 'bout time I say."

"Looks more like another kid roughed _him_ up," Trailbreaker added.

Prowl craned his neck to glare at Sunstreaker, "The big deal is that he's broken the law and there are—"

"Shut up! Shut up, shut up, _shut up_!" Spike yelled, jumping to his feet. "Who the hell cares?! Alright! I beat _Roy Mitchell_ up for being an asshole! He deserved every punch and more. _Carly_ was there, she saw what he was doing! All I did was to try and get him to leave the other kid alone and he stated in on me and his cronies showed up and started in on Carly too! I told him to back off but he wouldn't! Even then I only hit him cause he called my mom a…"

Spike's rant ended abruptly, his words fading away into silence and all the Mech stared at him. His face scrunched in a furious scowl and slammed the ice pack onto the table, running his hand roughly through his hair, before sitting back down. He cursed under his breath as his chest heaved from his tirade.

Beside him, Bumblebee gazed on with outright concern. He wanted to try and comfort his friend, but he decided to let the human seethe for a while and let his built up anger dissipate. But something about Spike's yelling made him curious as to why he stopped so suddenly. Before he could voice his worries, Sunstreaker voiced them for him

"What about your Mom?" Sunstreaker asked. Spike's head snapped up, his eyes narrow and red. He grabbed the ice pack and chucked it as hard as he could at the yellow warrior, hitting the Mech's arm as he lifted it to shield himself. "Hey!"

"Shut up!" Spike yelled.

Prowls engines revved. "_Enough_!"

Bumblebee realized something he'd never thought about before. Sparkplug was Spike's father, they all knew that, but they knew nothing about Spike's Mother, Sparkplug's mate—er, wife. He stared at the boy, asking softly, "Spike? What happened to your Mom?"

"Yeah, we've never met her," Bluestreak added curiously, appearing to have thought of the same thing, "Where is she?"

Spike's stiff shoulders drooped and his fists unclenched. His narrow eyes softened and his scowl faded away. He lowered his head.

"She died," He answered, voice hoarse.

The Medbay went silent.

"When? What happened?" Bumblebee asked, placing a comforting hand on the boy's back. This time, he didn't shrug it away. Spike sucked in an unsteady breath and two fat tear drops dripped from his cheeks. His hand hurriedly reached up to scrub them away.

"A long time ago. I don't want to talk about it," Spike replied and pushed himself off the table, much to Ratchet's disapproval. The boy landed awkwardly, but caught him balance, ignoring the slight pain in his ankles from the somewhat jarring landing. The Medic scowled and opened his mouth to say something when Prowl placed him hand on Ratchet's chest to stop him.

Ratchet glared at the tactician, who merely shook his head. With a scowl, he returned to Trailbreaker's repairs, looking out the corner of his optic as Spike walked out of the Medbay.

* * *

Author notes part 2: Oh no Scooby, we have a mystery to solve!


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Notes: I meant to update yesterday but I was occupied by photoshop all night working on a picture and totally forgot. So here it is this morning. A little shorter then the last chapter, but this is by far my favorite conversation I have ever written. Chelsea is the Autobot's lawyer, so you don't become bewildered. She and Jazz have an...interesting friendship. I'm contemplating on actually writting something about her becoming their lawyer, but nothing definite yet, just plot bunnies.

* * *

Mourning the Day

* * *

"I don't see why you felt the need to call me," A porcelain faced woman in her early thirties said, perky curls of amber hair bouncing atop her head, said into the phone's receiver as her green eyes narrowed at the wall of her office

"I don't see why you felt the need to call _me_," A porcelain faced woman in her early thirties said, perky curls of amber hair bouncing atop her head, said into the phone's receiver as her green eyes narrowed at the wall of her office. Stacks of court papers littered her desk and between an odd page or two stuck out the photo of her various clients with the most recent being a pair of two brightly colored twins; one looking on with a grim scowl and the other with a cheeky grin. She daftly picked them up and tapped the stack against the desk into a neat pile, setting them inside the drawer next to her right leg. "Mr. Witwicky has already contacted his lawyer."

"Nah, I ain't callin' 'bout that," the voice on the other side of the line replied, dismissive and cheerful all at one. "I was wonderin' if you could do a bit o' digging for me and some of th' guys."

"Well that depends."

"On what?"

"How will I be compensated for this overtime? I doubt Bill's going to be too thrilled seeing as he already owes me a very fat raise for taking your bunch on as my clients, which by the way has aged me by at least a decade."

"I was kinda hopin' maybe you could possibly do me this one itty-bitty micron unit of a favor out of your natural good hearted kindness. Y'know…between friends?"

"…"

"…not buyin' it, huh?"

"Not for a moment."

"I thought human females were supposed to be the compassionate gender…"

"If I had an ounce of compassion in me I wouldn't be a lawyer. By creed we're selfish, slimy, greedy liars who'd sell our own Grandmothers if we thought it would help win a case."

"You're not slimy."

She sighed. "I am busy, I don't have time to be playing detective for—"

"_C'mon_ Chelsea…_pleeeeease_? Just _one _little favor?"

Chelsea Bard closed her eyes and sighed again, pinching the bridge of her nose. It was like talking to a child. "You're making the face aren't you?"

"You bet I am! I'll mail you a picture."

"Don' bother." She took a long breath and slowly released it, willing her mounting irritation to subside, and laid back in her chair. "Alright. What is it you want me to find out?"

"Well, Bumblebee was asking me if I knew anythin' about Spike's Mom. Well I didn't, so I asked 'round and none of us know anythin' 'bout her. Really, we'd never given it any thought. I was wondering what you could do on yer end. Y'know, with all yer awesome an' terrifying legal power and knowledge."

"What about her?" The woman asked frankly, the Mech's flattery having no effect. "What does this have to do with the arrest?"

"Well…nothin' really. We may be makin' mountains outta mole hills here," the voice said, "But Spike said somethin' that kinda made us a bit suspicious."

"What did he say?"

"Said that the boy he fought said somethin' about 'is Ma."

The woman rolled her eyes, swiveling in her chair slightly. "Sounds like Spike got mad at Mr. Mitchell for bad-mouthing his mother. A normal reaction for anyone. There's nothing to investigate here, Jazz."

"Nah, it ain't that. I was wondering what you could find out about her."

"About Spike's Mom?"

"Yeah."

"…why? Why not just find her and ask her yourself."

A moment of silence and she silently cursed herself. "Oh. I see."

"Yeah," Jazz replied, his voice lowered. "Spike ain't in too much of a talkin' mood. He's kinda pulled a _Mirage_ on us and disappeared somewhere. And Sparkplug's a little tied up with the legalities of the arrest."

"What about Spike's girlfriend…uh…what's was her name?"

"Carly? She stopped by an hour ago and told us what happened, but she's as much in th' dark as th' rest a' us."

Chelsea turned her chair idly and happened to glance at her computer screen as she listened to Jazz talk. In the far right bottom corner, she noted the date and something clicked. "Hey, Jazz?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you know what tomorrow is?"

"Uh…Thursday? Why?"

"_No_-well yes, but besides that," Chelsea said, righting her chair. "It's Mother's Day."

"Mother's Day?" Jazz sounded incredulous and curious all at once.

"Yep. It's on May 11, every year," She said.

"Wassat?"

"It's a day when we give thanks and show appreciation to our mothers. But now-a-days we include all motherly figures like Aunts, grandmas and stuff but that's not the point. Spike was probably already wound up about it being Mother's day soon. The Mitchell boy chose a bad day to pick a fight and even worse one to rag on someone's Mom."

"S'pose so." The voice sounded pensive.

She paused. "Must be hard for them," she said at length.

"Them?"

"Spike lost his Mom, Sparkplug lost his wife."

"Oh. Right." Jazz paused. "Y'know, you're real good at this stuff."

She smiled into the receiver. "I'm a woman."

"That too."

Chelsea glanced at her desk at the picture frames propped up there and gazed at the small snippets there, frozen in time. A woman and a young girl dressed in matching sun dresses smiled out from the frames and beside it was another photo of an elderly woman and a younger woman with long amber locks standing together in front of a house. Both were smiling and hugging each other. She smiled fondly at the old women in the photos.

"You know…maybe I _will_ look into this."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks Chelsea!"

"No problem, Jazz," She replied. "Just one thing…"

"Yeah? What's that?"

She stared at the photos, feeling an unexpected sting of tears. "Don't try to pressure Spike into talking. He'll talk when he's ready."

The voice on the other end scoffed, "Tell that to Bumblebee. That little bot's been frettin' 'bout Spike all afternoon."

"I'll call when I've found something out."

"'Kay. Thanks."

"No problem. But you owe me. _Big_."

"Ah, I thought so. What's the total now?"

"Thirty-seven."

"Hm. Somehow I thought it'd be more."

"Yes well, there was the Christmas party incident…"

"Oh yeah. You totally owed me for that. In fact, technically that should have earned me your _soul_, shouldn't it?"

There was an annoying smugness to the Autobot's voice that Chelsea did not appreciate. Then she smirked, "Possibly, but there was the City Hall fiasco last year and—"

"_Ah-ha_, no need to bring that up. Thirty-seven sounds 'bout right."

"And I never told Prowl, either." She added smugly.

"Have I ever mentioned how much I _love_ you for that?'

She rolled her eyes. "Every time you call."

"Well then I am _way_ over due. I love you."

She propped her elbow up on her desk, idly twirling a lock of hair around her finger and tried to suppress a smile, "I wonder how my Dad would react if I ever told him I have an Autobot stalker," She mused.

"I'm not a stalker." The voice said indignantly. She grinned.

"You followed me to Ricky's Café last week."

"That was a coincidence. I was on patrol."

"_Suuure_."

"How do you know it was even me?"

"Jazz, just how many black and white Porsches with giant _Four_'s on the hood do you think are there in this town?"

"Twenty-two."

She rolled her eyes. "One."

"Ha. I was close."

"Hardly."

"What were you doing with that Eddy-stiff anyway? I thought you 'hated him with a passion of a thousands Suns' if those weren't your exact words."

"He offered to take me out to get some breakfast. A woman will do just about anything for free pastry."

"That all?"

"Yeah, why? Jealous?"

"No, I'm just wondering if I should get an umbrella."

"…an umbrella? Why?"

"Because...you being _somewhat_ social? I'm pretty sure the sky's about to fall."

Chelsea looked upwards in exasperation, deciding the conversation was over.

"_Good-bye_ Jazz."

Before the Autobot could answer, she dropped the phone onto the cradle, severing the connection.

"I swear," She sighed, grasping another pile of folder and tapping them against the desk until they molded together in an organized pile, and smiled, "That Mech is entirely too flirty."

* * *

Author's notes: Before anyone asks, _no_. Chelsea and Jazz are not in love and are not a couple. She might have a little crush on him, but there's no way in Hell she'd ever admit it, aloud or to herself. Lawyers have no business being all lovey and nurturing. Jazz just likes to push her buttons and tries to get her to stop being a darn stick in the mud. Jazz: "She's so much like Prowl it's scary!"


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Notes: I'm glad everyone enjoyed that last chapter! Here is yet another chap. Just one more to go.

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The sun was well on its way down south, casting the Oregon landscape in a rich palate of orange and pink

The sun was well on its way down south, casting the Oregon landscape in a rich palate of orange and pink. The sky was partially obscured by retreating rain clouds and there was a kind of heaviness in the air from residual moisture. A lone figure starred out at the setting sun, perched atop a large boulder, and feet dangling over the edge. His mind felt scattered. He was tired and sore but he wouldn't leave to rest. He didn't want to. His mind wouldn't settle.

It still seemed like yesterday that she was still there. Had it really been 5 years? It didn't seem possible, more like she'd been on a very long vacation he was still waiting for her to come back from. Most of the year it seemed as though it had happened ages and ages ago, but it always became fresh and palpable again around certain times of the year; birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, any place where her absence was impossible to ignore. Spike sighed and rearranged himself so his feet wouldn't become numb, rubbing feeling back into the limbs when they were still too long. He suddenly had the urge to run, to go down to the track and just start running laps until he couldn't breath, until he couldn't think of anything beyond refilling his lungs. To distract him…

"Spike?"

He started, whirling around and nearly toppling off his perch at the sound of his name. After securing himself, he looked up to see a familiar yellow form ambling up the narrow path that lead from the entrance of the Ark to the secluded ridge where Spike had been seeking refuge for the last few hours. The path was obstructed by the large boulder Spike was currently occupying.

The yellow Autobot wilted when the boy just looked back towards the setting sun, barely even acknowledging him.

"You're…uh…Sparkplug's back and he was wondering where you were," Bumblebee said carefully, hoping to somehow coax the restless teen down from his mood. Apparently this was the wrong thing to say as Spike narrowed his eyes and turned a little away from him, burying his face in his arms that rested on one propped up knee. Bumblebee sighed and began to negotiate the path, careful not to misstep and send himself toppling down the hill.

"You should just go back inside Bee," Spike said, voice somewhat muffled from his sleeves, as the minibot made his way ever closer. "I just want to be alone."

"I can't leave you out here like this," Bumblebee replied accusingly, "Not unless you tell me what's wrong."

"It's none of your business," Spike replied tartly. "It's _no one_ business. So just leave me alone, alright?"

"It's not alright Spike if you won't talk to anyone," Bumblebee replied, his own voice gaining some bite. He was becoming irritated at Spike's uncooperative behavior. "What about me? I though I was your friend?"

"You are my friend!" Spike declared, turning around to finally face the Mech. His eyes were red and raw, Bumblebee noted. He'd been crying. "I just have a lot to think about alright? I just need a little while to…get my head straight. So just go, I'll come down later."

The boy turned away to resume his 'soul searching'. Bumblebee frowned. "Spike, I can help you sort through it, you just need to—"

"Agh!" Spike growled in aggravation, clenching his fists and scowling. He whirled on the little bot again, "I said to leave me alone! How hard is it for you to understand that? I-do-not-want-to-talk-about-it! With you or with _anyone_!"

With that, the boy pushed himself off and onto the other side of the boulder, leaving the very large rock between him and Bumblebee. The Autobot felt a twinge of remorse and then annoyance. He scuttled up to the boulder, which was almost as tall as him, and stuck his face between the edge of the hillside and the curve of the rock. There was just enough room between them for him to peer through. And he watched Spike walk down the other side of the path.

"Spike! Come back here," Bumblebee snapped. He was ignored. Angry now, Bumblebee grabbed a hold of the rock and pulled himself up. Balancing on top of the rock while securing himself by grabbing onto the incline beside him, Bumblebee called out to the young man again. "Spike! Come back here! We need to—"

The rock suddenly shifted under him and before he knew what was happening, the boulder disappeared from beneath his feet. His world flipped and tumbled as the yellow bot rolled ungraciously down the hill. Back on the ridge, Spike watched horrified as his best friend went rolling down the dirt laden hill, wafting up clouds of dust.

"Bumblebee!" Spike called, abandoning his anger and substituting it with worry. The young man jumped off the path and carefully began to scale down the steep hill as fast as a pace as the ground would allow him without sending his butt flying down it too. Upon reaching the bottom, Spike tripped when his foot caught the edge of a small ditch and he scrambled to regain his balance, crawling on all fours as his built up momentum keep him going long after he'd lost his footing, sending him head first into the dirt. He felt his bruises scream in offense and he groaned. Shrugging it all away with a reckless abandon, he got back to his feet and rushed to the side of the little yellow bot who was carefully picking himself up out of the dirt, looking about dazedly as his processor began piecing the situation together and giving him a reason as to why he was suddenly sitting at the bottom of the hill when not a moment before he had been atop it. He looked down at the young human who bounded over to him, partially colliding into his arm.

"Bumblebee! Are you OK?" He asked, resting both hands on the yellow forearm, eyes darting around his frame and back to his face.

"Yeah," the Autobot replied, rubbing the back of his head and grimacing when head felt a good sized dent there. "But Ratchet's not gonna be happy to see me back in the 'Bay so soon."

Spike starred at the Autobot for a moment as if his words meant absolutely no sense…and then started to laugh. Bumblebee regarded his human friend bemusedly before smiling, glad to see Spike back to his cheerful self, if only for a moment.

"Are you Okay?" Bumblebee asked when the young human had regained himself.

"Yeah," Spike shrugged, rolling his shoulder. "Bruised my pride maybe…"

"No," Bumblebee replied, optics critiquing the human intently, "I mean…are you _alright_."

Spike stared at the Mech, the seriousness written on his face being enough clarification. He sighed and looked back at the sun set, locking his hands behind his head and wincing when a bruise was aggravated. "You're not going to let this drop are you?"

"What kind of friend would I be if I didn't take time to nag you once in a while?" Bumblebee replied smugly. He reached out and gently pushed his balled fist into Spike shoulder. "Especially if it's for your own good."

Spike closed his eyes and laughed, nodding. "Alright, you want the story? Fine."

Promptly sitting down in the dirt, a cloud of dust blooming up around him, Spike became silent as he gathered his thoughts. He stared up into the sky that was slowly leaking into the inky violent hues of twilight, leaning back. "I hit Roy Mitchells because he called my mom a whore."

Bumblebee felt a little deprived at the poor story/explanation and attempted to disclose more from him. "Is that it?"

"That's it. It's what happened." Spike replied frankly.

"What about your Mom though?"

"What about her?" He voice began low and tight. Bumblebee knew he'd found what he was looking for.

"What happened to her?" He asked.

Just as he had done back in the Medbay, he stared off into the fading light as if the answer were somehow engraved in the hillsides or in the sky. "She died, like I said."

"Spike," Bumblebee admonished, "You've been acting reserved and angry all afternoon. There's more then that."

"I don't like people bad mouthing my mom, it's as simple as that. I got angry."

"No, it's not as simple as that. Otherwise you would be acting all…Moody."

"You guys don't have Moms and Dads do you?"

"Well…No. We have creators, but most Mechs aren't that close to theirs, as much as you humans are to your's, I mean. They're more like…really good friends."

"I was nine when she died," Spike admitted rather frankly, almost impersonally. "I couldn't understand why she was dying. The doctors always said they were doing their best, but she still died."

Bumblebee was silent for a moment as he processed Spike words, trying think of an appropriate reply. Instead, he opted for a question, "How?"

"Cancer." Spike replied, again in that frank and forward voice as if detaching himself from it. "She had a malignant tumor in her brain. Even if they operated…she still would have died. I remember she was always smiling, even when everyone else was really sad. She kept smiling like whatever they were upset over wasn't that bad. I use to think she was okay with dieing, but after a couple years I wasn't so sure. I can't imagine what she must have been thinking. She knew she was dieing…I know she did. A lot of people believe that when someone is sick or is about to die that they'll have some innate knowledge or insight that their time has come so they can say goodbye to everyone." A pause. "I was the last person she talked to before she passed away."

It was petty and meaningless, but it was the only think he could think of saying in response, "I'm so sorry Spike."

"A lot of people say that to me, especially back then when it happened, but I never really believed them. It's stupid to say it, really. You're not sorry, it wasn't anyone's fault. Not even the Doctors. It's just miss-placed sympathy. Hoping somehow if enough people say it enough times, you won't feel it anymore. But it never goes away. It just numbs you a little."

_Miss-placed?_ Bumblebee thought incredulously, but kept it to himself. Keeping his voice smooth and low, he asked, "What would you have them say?"

Spike just shrugged. "I dunno…"

The two fell into silence and they watched as night overtook the sky.

"_Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me; the carriage held but just ourselves and immortality…"_

Bumblebee looked down at Spike. "What's that?"

Spike smiled thinly. "My Mom loved poetry, but she always said a lot of it was confusing to her. Lots of big words and weird metaphors and stuff. Emily Dickenson was her favorite. She said she could always understand her poems because they were simple. She used to read them to me," Spike said. "It's the epitaph that we put on her head stone. She wanted it. Dad didn't really like the idea but he did it anyway. It was what she wanted, so he did it. For her."

Bumblebee nodded. "What was your mother's name?"

"Patricia." Spike's voice cracked as he said that and Bumblebee was not oblivious to it or its significance.

"Do you miss her?" He asked softly, reaching out to gently place one of his hands on the boy's back, to which Spike did not flinch away; rather he seemed to welcome it.

"Yeah. A lot." He sank into himself and his breath became rigid and unmanageable. Bumblebee didn't say anything more or remove his hand or get up to leave. He stayed there as waited as his best friend broke down and allowed himself to openly cry without shame or restraint.

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Tissue anyone?


End file.
